That last brandy and Babycham
made fairgrounds of my head.
My mind swirls around like
a goldfish in a bag -
I gawp at the stiletto heels
crushing fag ends into carpets
lined with dreams of
kisses with tongues and
fingerings in the toilets.
Dim lights shushing a scream
of a tit, a crushing of a thigh,
a pulse of a slick dick.
I am counting the tiles on
the bathroom floor.
I cannot see through the
haze of last night’s mascara,
smeared battle cries across my cheeks.
Lipstick stains your cock scarlet,
like a rose knighthood, given by a queen
who could barely suck for
I cover the stale smell of your
old news cadaver with eau de parfum,
and ask your name.
Poisoning the Sunday Roast
I want to masticate your manhood
Spit it out
Is her garden
smattered with laburnum
more fragrant than my cherry tree?
My fallen cherries bruised
my chalice swollen
I trust you
I think of ewes and lambs, of old and new,
of poisoning the Sunday roast
I think of death
I am alone. I am lonely.
I am my spine, spun of steel, I feel
the fall, the fear, I am the tear
that falls upon the fell, I am
the girl that fell and no one broke her
I am full. I am full of empty. I am full of nasty,
mighty men who want me when I am
resplendent, I am death’s descendant.
I am wombs of worries birthing armies,
screaming “I am sorry.”
I am fighting.
Sarah Drury is a half-crazed poet and MA student from the UK. She spends her time writing, painting, and trying to get her teen to tidy his room. She has been published in a number of anthologies and online magazines and was shortlisted for the Bridport Poetry Prize in 2022.